


Messed Up

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Impact Play, Light BDSM, M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: To say that Eames had failed to make a good first impression on Arthur was putting it mildly. He hadn’t intended to spill coffee on Arthur’s impeccably-tailored bespoke suit, obviously. And he certainly hadn’t intended to cop a feel of Arthur’s groin while trying to help him mop up the steaming mess. Well, not consciously, anyway.Many many thanks to my betas/cheerleaders Teacuphuman, Tabi_essentially and Aja! And thanks to QueenThayet for writing the deliciously hot original story for which this is now the prequel!





	Messed Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenThayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenThayet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Kneel in Worship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8972368) by [QueenThayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenThayet/pseuds/QueenThayet). 



Eames vividly remembered meeting Arthur in person for the first time. He’d heard about him, of course. Everyone in dreamshare knew about Arthur. Ruthlessly efficient, organized to the hilt, the best point man in the business. Eames had been certain that the reputation was overblown; no one could be as competent as all that. But then he’d heard the stories of the Argos affair, confirmed by multiple witnesses, and that put paid to any notion of hyperbole.

All his troubles had started there, listening with an increasing sense of wonder as Demetri had woven a tale of fantastical tactical brilliance, unassailable grace under fire and a degree of loyalty to his team that made Eames ashamed of himself. Eames was never ashamed of himself. But Arthur—well, if he ever met the man he’d be sure to stay on his good side, that was certain.

Then the day came and to say that Eames failed to make a good impression was putting it mildly. He hadn’t intended to spill coffee on Arthur’s impeccably-tailored bespoke suit, obviously. And he certainly hadn’t intended to cop a feel of Arthur’s groin while trying to help him mop up the steaming mess. Well, not consciously, anyway.

Arthur had recoiled and given him a look like an angry cat, then refused to speak to him for the rest of the job. Quite literally: he had Jemiah deliver all his messages, eschewing texts or emails - as if acknowledging Eames’ presence directly, even through a technological intermediary, was to accord him too much dignity. The messages mostly consisted of acerbic takedowns of Eames’ attempts to contribute to strategy, but also included one or two remarks about his personality flaws. And once, that he had something stuck in his teeth.

Jemiah did not take kindly to this treatment, as it happened. That job won him no friends.

The sad fact was, however, that no matter the poor impression Eames had made on Arthur, Arthur had made a very good impression on Eames. Putting it mildly. Eames’ mind and libido had, in fact, seemingly imprinted on Arthur. It wasn’t just that he was a comely lad, though he was. His smile, glimpsed on two occasions only—needless to say not directed at him—was blinding in both its sincerity and beauty. His scowl was a thing to make the angels weep. His arse—well, best not to dwell on it overmuch.

But dwell Eames did, at night, all alone in his hotel room. He found himself thinking of it while texting his girlfriend, he found himself thinking of it while shaving, he found himself thinking of it while attempting to perfect his forge and managing only to create a perfect facsimile of Arthur’s bum. Which looked semi-ludicrous attached to the figure of the bovine Norseman he was supposed to be duplicating. 

But none of this would have been a problem, had it only been Arthur's physical charms that had struck him so hard. Eames had an eye for beauty and a vivid imagination which served him well on the not-infrequent occasions that ill-timed lust for a colleague beset him. Unfortunately, Arthur was all that his reputation had made him out to be. Precise, strategic, and while not exactly imaginative, definitely ingenious. While he couldn’t initiate a plan to save his life, he excelled at finding the hidden weak spots in someone else’s (usually Eames’). And when it came to Macgyvering a solution out of available parts, he surpassed anyone Eames had ever met.

Dreamshare was a strange place, filled with both the scum of the earth and the fallen elite, the creme de la creme who’d flown too close to the sun and had their wings melted. The streetwise criminals inevitably scoffed at the high-flown theories of the exiled academics, while for their part the academics were loathe to accord any credibility to input from the lower classes. Eames was used to the uneven nature of the teams he usually worked on, but he’d never experienced a point so adept at utilizing everyone’s strengths.

In short, Eames was smitten.

But what was to be done? He’d fatally injured his prospects on that first day, and it didn’t appear likely that he would get another call from that quarter. Alas. Well, he consoled himself, he would always have the memory of Arthur spending half the day leaning over the work table, trying to explain the exact parameters of the labyrinth he wanted the architect to build on the second level. His arse in those skin-tight trousers would have made a bishop kick out a stained glass window, had any bishops been in the vicinity. Or any stained glass windows.

It was a shock, then, when less than two months later Eames received a call from an unknown number and, upon answering, heard Arthur’s brusque baritone reluctantly utter, “Eames.” It appeared that Eames’ contributions to their first job hadn’t gone totally unappreciated, because the payout for the one that Arthur was calling about was roughly three times the previous. 

That job went down with nary a hitch, and by the end of it, Arthur was speaking directly to Eames for the first time in their acquaintance. Granted, it was usually to rip him a new one, or let him know how utterly unimpressed he was with this, that, or the other witticism Eames had made. But still, progress was being made.

They worked a few more jobs together, Arthur getting incrementally more—well, friendly wasn’t the word. Tolerant, perhaps. It was a slow climb up from the ravine Eames had landed himself in, but Eames was used to playing a long game.

Seven months after the fourth job, Arthur had rung Eames up, out of breath and sounding as frantic as his monotone would allow. Eames had hustled onto the next flight to Lisbon, fighting a mild panic attack and thankful he’d invested in that continuing education course on how to smuggle guns into foreign countries. He’d only taken it because Arthur was teaching, but it had come in handy more than once.

As it happened, his services as a guard and/or attack dog were not needed—rather, it had suddenly become vital that they obtain the services of a forger. A very good forger. The best, as Arthur confessed with a slight frown, when he picked Eames up at the airport.

Eames looked over at Arthur, who was driving with a single-minded intensity that frankly made Eames salivate, and opened his mouth to ask about the job. He seemed more stressed than usual, however, and Eames decided it was best to wait until Arthur was ready to divulge the nature of the job and the reason why his services were suddenly called upon. The ride from the airport to their headquarters passed in total silence.

The headquarters turned out to be a little cottage where the team was also staying, although the phrase “team” was overstating the case. There was Arthur, of course, on point, but the only other person still on the team was Elise, the architect, and she was wrapping up her job and leaving in the morning, apparently. No chemist—they were relying on pre-made standard Somnacin for this one. And importantly, no extractor. The only information that Arthur had conveyed to Eames over the phone was that he had let the extractor go when it had turned out that he would be useless. But what that meant was still unclear.

On entering, Eames had looked around at the living room-cum-office and identified his workspace as the comfortable, slightly rundown armchair by the disused fireplace. He made his way over and sat down, watching while Arthur paced around the room, reorganizing various piles of folders.

“Care to give me the rundown?” Eames asked gently, sensing it was best to tread lightly and still uncertain of their rapport. 

Arthur huffed out a breath as he finally sat down, perched on the edge of the mid-century sofa, trousers stretched tight over his slim thighs. Eames endeavored not to stare and focused instead on Arthur’s furrowed brow. This was going to be deeply unpleasant, he suddenly realized, to judge by Arthur’s reluctance to begin.

“The mark is Constantin Pavlovich, heir to the Novatek fortune and a powerful and ruthless business man in his own right, connected to Bratva. He’s unmarried, no children, no friends to speak of. He seems to run his affairs without the input of anyone else, not even a lawyer on retainer. He’s a polymath and a genius. And totally isolated. I hadn’t known before the start of the job exactly how isolated he is. He trusts no one. That’s why I fired the extractor—he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Not only is Pavlovich militarized, there’s just no way he’ll let anyone get close to him, much less a stranger.”

“Well, this sounds promising,” Eames drawled.

Arthur glared at him, then softened slightly. “I misspoke. There’s one person he lets in.”

“A lover?” Eames guessed. He relaxed internally. This would be a no-brainer. He’d done dozens of jobs like this, with marks as dangerous or more so.

“His dom.”

Eames startled and tried to cover it by shifting position in the chair. Dom Cobb? This was going to be weird. But he—wait, no, he must have misheard. He frowned and rubbed his fingers together—and then the penny dropped. Oh. His dom.

Hm.

“So, we’re talking Howard Hughes in bondage gear.”

“Reductive, but somewhat accurate,” Arthur said, looking once again flatly unimpressed with Eames’ wit. “Although it’s not Pavlovich who wears the bondage gear.” He eyed Eames, gauging his reaction.

Eames nodded. Of course, the sub, or the slave, would be naked, most likely. With a collar, perhaps. He, or rather, his character, would be wearing leather trousers and a vest or something similar. Straps and whatnot. Images flashed through Eames’ mind, but as they were based on movies and airbrushed photo-shoots he’d seen here and there, they were unlikely to be realistic.

That wasn’t to say he was a total innocent in the ways of BDSM. He’d done his fair share of playful restraining in the bedroom, on both sides of the equation, but it hadn’t been particularly structured or serious. It was mostly in the service of casually seeking a new thrill and there’d been no sense that any level of trust was required. But he was out of his depth for the purposes of this job and he would have to let Arthur know that.

“How much time do we have to prepare?” he hedged.

Arthur glanced at him and then away towards the empty fireplace. “Four days.”

“Hm. Well, you should know I’m not—that is to say, I haven’t—” he trailed off awkwardly. It was surprisingly difficult to confess his lack of substantive experience in this realm. “I’m game for anything, but I’ll need to do a lot of research.”

Arthur nodded stiffly. “I have some resources for you. There’s a spare laptop and I’ve put together a, uh, curriculum.”

Arthur looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Eames wondered, not for the first time, which way Arthur’s proclivities lay. If in fact he had any. He seemed untouchable, still in original packaging. It was within the realm of possibility that this whole situation embarrassed him. He noted a slight flush to Arthur’s cheeks.

“Ta, that will be lovely. And what do we know about the, er, dom as a person?”

“Nothing. He’s a complete cipher.”

Eames swallowed. “That’s not good. Have you-”

“Yes,” Arthur said curtly. “I have. He’s as isolated as the mark and he’s clearly experienced in covering his tracks. His name is an alias originating about two years ago. He engages in no significant relationships with anyone other than the mark. We do have some grainy footage of a session between him and the mark, and I can’t even begin to describe how difficult that was to come by. We have photos of him in his daily life and sound files of him talking with a few store clerks but that’s it.”

Eames struggled to look confident in the face of this dispiriting information. “Well, I’d best get to work,” he said, rubbing his hands together and looking around for the laptop.

After a day and half of reviewing the footage and sound files, Eames felt confident he could forge the person reasonably well, enough to fool someone who’d only met him a few times and hadn’t talked to him at length. Which was wildly insufficient, but there was still time. As with rehearsing for a part in a play, you didn’t want to hit your peak too soon.

He’d also been going over the curriculum, so-called. It was a number of e-books and websites, and while it helped Eames understand the abstract concepts and dynamics, it didn’t help him with the practicalities of inflicting pain on a person at his entire mercy. And then there was the concept of subspace, which to be honest he’d never heard of previously. It sounded dangerous for the sub—though of course, it was perfect for extraction. If he could just manage to sink the mark into subspace, he’d be pitifully vulnerable to incursions on his subconscious on his way back up to full awareness. It was a brilliant plan.

It was just too bad that Eames wasn’t going to be able to pull it off.

He glanced over at Arthur, sitting on his knees at the coffee table, a laptop and a tablet in front of him, pen in his mouth, pulling his lower lip into a pout. How to start this?

“Arthur,” Eames began, and Arthur slowly pulled the pen from between his lips before he looked over.

“It’s not going to work.”

“What?” Arthur raised one imperious eyebrow at him, which never failed to get Eames’ dander up. He squelched it with extreme prejudice.

“Look, the websites and videos are all very well but there’s no substitute for practical experience. I can’t just start caning someone, having never done it before. And they—the things they do, the length and complexity of that scene... I may be a great forger but I can’t wing that. The mark’s going to know. I’ll hurt him more than he likes, or—It’s just. I don’t think this is going to pan out. I’m sorry.”

Losing face like this professionally was hard enough, but to have to do it in front of Arthur was excruciating. Eames wished there were a way to salvage this. He hoped that at the very least, his honesty earned him some points, that Arthur wouldn’t write him off after this. Arthur was staring at his laptop, frowning. Not a good sign.

“I can help,” Arthur said, eyes still focused on some spreadsheet.

Eames laughed hollowly. “Another website isn’t going to overcome this, Arthur. I know what I’m capable of. I can’t just waltz in and drop this guy into subspace. It’s a brilliant idea, but it’s not going to happen.”

“I said I can help,” Arthur repeated, finally cutting his gaze over to Eames.

Eames narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Help how?”

“I’ll go under with you.”

“But you haven’t—” Eames broke off abruptly. How was he to know what Arthur had and hadn’t done? All at once, it was as if a mist cleared and the rising sun was visible on the horizon. Arthur. Fastidious, poker-faced, controlling Arthur. Of course. He was into this. He was probably an expert dom—he just didn’t want to reveal information about his private life until he had no choice.

Arthur’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Oh, I haven’t. Well, thanks for letting me know.”

“I’m sorry. Please go on.” Eames directed his gaze to the floor in a show of submission. He’d stepped in it. Arthur wouldn’t want his grand revelation marred by expressions of doubt, or have his offer of help thrown in his face.

“I have some familiarity with the scene. I can give you some practical experience in domination.”

Eames let out a long, slow breath as he felt his core temperature rise. Just the thought of Arthur, possibly in leather pants, restraining him—here was a kink he hadn’t know he had, but Christ, the effect it had on him. “That would be much appreciated,” he said softly, head bowed.

“But you’re going to have a show a bit more spirit than that.”

“I- I am? Oh, you’ll need a reason to discipline me, of course,” Eames began, but petered out as Arthur scowled at him.

“What are you talking about? I’m going to sub for you. I’ll guide you through dropping me into subspace.”

“You’re submissive,” Eames said, trying to keep the disbelief out of his voice and failing spectacularly.

“Are you kidding me?” Arthur was staring at Eames as if he were an idiot. It was all too possible that he was. After all, wasn't it the most controlling people who had the deepest need for the release of submitting to someone else’s will? Eames internally castigated himself for his failure to twig more quickly.

“Ah, no. But with a moment’s reflection, it makes sense. No offense intended.” There was a long and very awkward silence. Arthur was absolutely still, hardly seeming to be breathing. Eames cast about for a way to salvage this, hazarding that the best course was to simply jump in with no further questioning. He gathered himself and stood up, shaking off his shame and uncertainty as he rose. No time like the present to start getting into character.

“Roll your sleeve up, we’re going under for this.” He flipped open the PASIV and gathered up the lines, dialing in the Somnacin levels, not waiting for Arthur to answer. Arthur sighed and plucked the lines roughly from his hands.

“I’m submissive sexually, Eames. That doesn’t mean you can railroad me in real life. Jesus,” Arthur said, terse and rough, but underneath that he sounded relieved. He put the PASIV under the coffee table and sat up on a chair, crossing one leg over the other. “We’re not going under until I’ve laid down the ground rules.”

Eames sat down on the couch, heartbeat pattering in his chest. He might be a little too impressed by Arthur, a little overly interested in the fit of his trousers, but that didn’t mean he had no pride. Being taken down a notch or three the way Arthur habitually did made Eames bristle and yearn to put him in his place.

 _Well. Here's your chance to do just that._ Eames dismissed that stray thought. He put on his best listening face and presented it to Arthur, who scowled at him.

“First thing I need to know is what kind of experience do you have?”

“That’s rather a personal question,” Eames drawled, but stopped short when Arthur’s glare turned lethal.

“Tell me,” Arthur rapped out.

Eames cleared his throat. “I’ve tied a few people up, but there weren’t any safe words used. I’ve spanked a few arses in the heat of the moment. That’s about it, really. You know. Dirty talk and the like. Humiliation of a kind, I suppose. I would say I’m fairly dominant, but it’s never been ritualized like this. I like the idea—I’ve just never had, well, an interested party to make the learning worthwhile.”

He had directed this information more to the fireplace grate than Arthur, but when he finished, he risked a look over and was astonished to see that Arthur’s eyes had glazed over somewhat, his mouth relaxed. 

Hm. Interesting.

Arthur shifted in his seat and draped an arm across his lap. “What’s the most important thing for the participants in a BDSM scene?”

Eames looked Arthur in the eye. “Trust.”

“Yes,” Arthur said, gaze sliding away to the window. “What else?”

“Communication.”

“Correct. And?”

Eames paused.

“Aftercare. Tell me, what do you know about subspace?”

Eames shifted in his seat. “Just what I’ve read on the websites you directed me to.”

“We’re going to get you comfortable with a riding crop, as that’s the most common of the mark’s activities with his dom, and then we’ll focus on subspace and aftercare, as that’s the most important aspect of this forge.”

“Alright,” Eames said. He was trying to calm his brain down, as it was metaphorically running in circles and gibbering at the prospect of having Arthur restrained, at his mercy.

Arthur rose from his seat, angling himself away from Eames, who couldn’t help but hope that there was an erection-related reason for that. He disappeared into the bedroom where he was staying and returned holding a long rod with a handle on one end and a leather flange on the other. He stroked his hand down the length of it and then handed it over to Eames, looking at him from under his lashes. Eames took it from him, turning it over in his hands to feel the weight of it. Very light, very flexible.

“This is—something I picked up in case we needed to do a little practical session.” Arthur’s voice sounded strained and Eames noticed that he had a dark flush on his cheeks. Arthur was almost certainly turned on.

This was a dream come true and absolute nightmare rolled into one. How on earth was Eames going to maintain his professionalism in this situation? Was it even possible? He knew that Arthur’s arousal was definitely unrelated to his presence; it was just that he liked this, this was his—his preference. His sexuality.

But his own reactions were very specific to Arthur. He would simply have to hope that he could manage to conceal how affected he was.

“Try it out on yourself.”

Eames opened his mouth but nothing came out. Arthur wanted him to—try it on himself?

“Go on,” Arthur urged. “You need to know what it feels like, so you don’t hurt me. Or the mark,” he added.

“Right,” Eames said curtly. It made sense. But how—? He put the crop under one arm and reached for his belt, making ready to drop trou. This was going to be weird but Arthur had asked, so…

“Wait,” Arthur said with a huff of amusement. “Not like that. Jesus, Eames.”

Eames dropped his hands and sighed in exasperation. “Well, how am I to know what you’re talking about? They’re used on someone’s arse, right?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, clearly suppressing a laugh. “But I—how were you going to—? Never mind. Hold your arm out. Test it on your forearm.”

Eames bit back on his irritation. “Fine. Understood.” He lifted the crop and thwacked the couch cushion a few times before raising it over his arm and bringing it down quickly. It made a sharp slapping sound and a brief rush of nearly-painful sensation that resolved quickly into a mild warmth.

“Good,” Arthur said. “Again.”

Eames’ gaze flickered up to meet Arthur’s. He swung the crop and rapped his arm, harder. 

This time it was more painful, but still not unbearable. The redness was a little more widespread, the warmth more lingering. He took a deep breath and hit his arm as hard as he could. It hurt, for sure, but wasn’t even enough to break the skin.

“Am I doing this right?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at Arthur, who just smiled in a vaguely condescending way, but since it was the first smile Arthur had ever aimed directly at him, Eames was not inclined to quibble.

“You’re fine. It’s not about causing severe pain or damage. And it always takes more than a few stripes to really get the full effect. This is something people do for hours, sometimes.” Arthur took Eames’ by the wrist of the arm he’d been striking, looking at the pinkening flesh. He ran his fingertips over it and Eames shivered.

“How does that feel,” he said in a low tone, then coughed and backed away. Eames shook his arm and put his other hand over the tingling skin.

“It feels more sensitive. Ticklish, intense.” Arthur nodded and turned away.

“That’s part of the point. It heightens sensation. Well, now you have some idea what it feels like, we should go under.”

“Didn’t you want to talk about subspace?” Eames asked, trying not to notice how his dick leapt at the thought of going under to practice using a crop on Arthur’s naked arse. At least, he assumed that’s what they were doing. It was enticing as hell and a little daunting.

Arthur sank onto the couch and crossed his legs. “You’re right. We should cover that first.”

Eames settled himself in the chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He regarded Arthur carefully, watching him as he would if he were going to forge him. Arthur was rattled. His color was up, his breathing faster than normal. Watching him like this made Eames feel less disoriented and lost—close observation was what he did, and using the information gathered from such careful attention paid. Arthur wouldn’t meet Eames’ eyes. He was hiding something. He bounced his foot slightly, played with a cufflink. Fidgeting. Arthur didn’t fidget.

“Subspace is a special mindset that a sub can sink into, or that a dom can drop a sub into. It’s a kind of...wordless meditative state in which the sub has let go of their conscious mind. It can feel like flying, or like floating. The sub doesn’t have to worry about anything or plan for anything; they’re resting their trust totally in the dom.”

Eames’s eyes roved hungrily over Arthur as he described subspace. It was crystal clear why Arthur would submit, why such a mental state would be attractive to him.

“You’ve been there before? In subspace?” Eames asked, knowing the answer was yes.

Arthur flicked a glance over at him, which then slid down to the floor. 

“Many times.”

A breath gusted out of Eames. What he would give to see Arthur pliant, relaxed, trusting— waiting for Eames to take his pleasure with him. A thrill raced through him as the knowledge finally sank in: that was exactly what he might be about to see. If he could manage to follow instructions and play this right.

“Safewords are not reliable when the goal is to go deep into subspace. When a sub is that far under, they might not be able to talk, or talk clearly. A dom has to know what to look for in the sub, to know the signs that they have taken as much as they can.You’ll see in the videotape that the dom slows down when the mark’s head hangs down, his neck going limp.”

Eames cleared his throat. “I’m right, aren’t I, in assuming that we’re going under to do a scene?” Arthur nodded, meeting Eames eyes with a level look, his cheeks still flushed. “How will I know what your signs are? How will I know when to slow down, or stop?”

Arthur swallowed, looked away. “My sign is—” He rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “I should have had you sign an NDA.”

“Arthur, you’re a walking NDA. If you think I would take my life in my hands by disclosing your personal business, you must think I don’t know how lethal you are.”

“My sign. When I—when there’s drool. When you can see, you know. When I’m.”

Eames eyes glazed over. Arthur was humiliated to have to share that information, and the fact that there was no delicate or non-embarrassing way to share it made it ten times worse. Drool. Like a dog. Well, it made Eames prick come to attention in a very Pavlovian way. Fuck, fuck, fuck did he want to see Arthur—composed, pristine Arthur—so undone by pleasure and pain that he had drool trickling from the corner of his shapely mouth. Fuck.

Eames gave a single nod, very understated, very professional. He hoped Arthur would fail to notice the extremely unprofessional boner he was sporting.

“Okay, so. If I notice that, I will stop. Correct?”

Arthur gave a responding curt nod but Eames saw a flash of relief on his face, that Eames wasn’t going to take the piss about it.

“Are we going to do everything they do in the surveillance footage?” Eames asked as casually as he could. It was a long scene and he wasn’t sure he could get up to speed on all the various implements employed in the service of bringing the mark to the point of total submission.

“Ah, no. I was thinking we’d give the mark just a little extra sedative to encourage his mind to slip into subspace and start from the point where the mark is restrained by his arms, waiting to be hit with the riding crop. I have engaged in a certain amount of impact play, and what they do in the footage is within the bounds of my capabilities.”

Eames tried to ignore the way his cock had begun to fill at Arthur’s description. “So, is that where we’ll start then?”

“Yes. You can enter the dream as yourself or as the dom, whatever you feel like.”

“Alright,” Eames said, his pulse racing. He retrieved the PASIV from under the table and bent over it, watching out of the corner of his eye how Arthur laid himself out on the sofa. Grace and precision defined all his movements, even in surrender. Would it be the same when they were under?

Arthur held out his arm, sleeve already rolled up. He regarded Eames under his lashes as Eames inserted the cannula, the scrutiny causing the faintest tremble of Eames’ hand.  
Eames then pushed the coffee table aside to lay down by the sofa and inserted his own cannula, eyes fluttering shut on the ugly light fixture and re-opening to the interior of the mark’s dungeon.

He had gone under as himself, same clothes and all; he didn’t have the presence of mind to enter as the dom. The room was dim, candles flickering from recesses in the brick walls. There was a wooden superstructure within the space, allowing for hooks, chains and ropes to suspend all manner of items to various heights. One wall was covered in implements hung from an enormous rack.

Arthur was across the room, facing away from him and quite clearly beginning to remove his clothes. Eames’ breath caught in his throat. He may have made a slight choking noise, because Arthur swiveled around, hands still on the buttons of his shirt.

“Do you want to do this as yourself or as the dom?”

“Er,” Eames began, not really wanting to do it as the dom, but unwilling to admit that for reasons that he certainly did not want to articulate.

“Just show me the dom and you can revert to yourself, it’s fine,” Arthur said brusquely, waving a hand at him and then turning his own attention back to his buttons. He remained facing Eames, however, and Eames had to close his eyes to block out the sight so he could focus on forging.

The customary ripple flowed over his body and he opened his eyes to see Arthur looking appraisingly at him.

“Good,” he said. “You can drop it for now.”

Eames did so, re-appearing as himself in pleated pants and short-sleeved button-down. Arthur’s mouth tugged up in a wry smirk.

“You might want to, uh, conjure yourself something more appropriate for the setting,” he said in a low voice as he stripped off his shirt and laid it over the back of a leather-upholstered chair.

“I’m not a magician,” Eames said, smiling. He was chuffed that Arthur had made a joke and preferred to cling to that emotion rather than allowing himself to feel the full brunt of the arousal that assaulted him at the sight of Arthur’s bared chest, or the nerves that began to thrum in him upon realizing that Arthur wanted him to forge himself some fetish gear.

He closed his eyes again and concentrated on well-worn black leather trousers, a supple harness and heavy boots. If Arthur hadn’t been looking directly at him, he wouldn’t have been able to resist making some subtle enhancements to his appearance. Alas. He steeled himself for Arthur’s reaction to the ensemble. Would he think Eames looked ridiculous in the get-up? Or would he find it appealing?

However, when he opened his eyes again, Arthur was already naked and turned away from him. Next to him on the floor were padded wrist cuffs and above him dangled a thick cord attached at two points to the ceiling, threaded through rings and cabled down the walls. There was a padded bolster in front of him, the same arrangement as in the video. Eames took a deep, silent breath and walked over to him, his eyes hungrily gathering details about Arthur’s arse (delicious, pert) and legs (long, lithe) and back (straight, proud, unblemished).

As he drew close, he could see fine beads of sweat forming on Arthur’s skin, causing his back and shoulders to glow in the soft light. Eames came to a stop a few inches behind him, watching and listening intently. He felt like they were under a spell and that something awful would happen should he carelessly break it. Arthur’s breathing was coming fast; was it possible that he was as excited for this as Eames was? Unless—no, impossible that Arthur was afraid. Arthur feared no one and nothing.

Eames stepped closer, just short of touching him all along his backside, and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Kneel.”

Arthur dropped to the floor fluidly, and the sound of his knees making contact with the wooden floors almost obscured the sigh that escaped him.

Arthur liked this.

Eames’ confidence surged, allowing him to slip further into his role. This was alright, this was welcome. Arthur really did want to be told what to do. For once.

Eames’ cock leapt in his leather trousers, unrestrained by pants. He looked down at the top of Arthur’s head, the hair combed back but not stiff with brylcream, the physics of the dream allowing it to look perfectly coiffed while remaining soft. Had Eames dared, he would have touched it, run his hand through it.

“Hold your arms out to the side, perpendicular to your body,” he ordered, voice rough and low. He had hoped to sound commanding but instead it was just painfully clear how affected he was by this. Arthur complied instantly, lifting his arms up to the stated position.

Eames knelt and fastened one cuff around Arthur’s right wrist carefully, making sure the straps were neither too loose nor too tight. From this vantage point he could see that Arthur had his gaze focused straight ahead, as he’d read subs often did. A thought flitted across his mind—it would be nice to order him to maintain eye contact.

But that wasn’t what doms did, normally. That’s not what the mark’s dom did.

From this vantage point, Eames could also see Arthur’s cock. It was hard, a nice size and excellent shape, and it took a fair amount of restraint for Eames not to spend a long moment admiring it. He got a grip on himself and pulled away to circle around to Arthur’s other arm. Arthur’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as Eames took ahold of his wrist to slip the cuff over it, and he couldn’t resist stroking his arm softly with his thumb while his other hand fastened the buckles.

Eames raised himself and stood in front of Arthur, whose gaze never wavered, focused directly in front of him. “Hold your arms in front of you, give me your hands,” he said, and Arthur did as he was told, smoothly and almost before the words were out of his mouth. He took the offered hands and one by one hooked the cuffs to the carabiner attached to the dangling rope. The line was slack, so he looked around, locating the ratchet on the wall and turning it ‘round until Arthur’s arms were over his head and he was having difficulty remaining upright. He slacked the line so Arthur could regain his balance.

The lines of his body were fantastic. Eames didn’t want to strike Arthur, he wanted to trace the shape of his musculature with his tongue, he wanted to bite his nipples and suck on them until Arthur was mewling in desperation. Heat pooled in his groin.

But they weren’t here for that, and Arthur wasn’t strung up like a piece of tantalizing flesh for his own pleasure, or for Eames’. This was just a job. He’d better get to work.

The wall opposite them held a vast array of floggers, crops, paddles and other implements Eames didn’t have a name for. He found a crop the same length as the one he’d just tested on himself and plucked it off the rack, hefting its slight weight in his hand.

Whether Arthur knew it or not, there was a lot riding on this for Eames. Making a hash of this was not an option. He didn’t want to hurt Arthur but he didn’t want to come off as soft, either. His best bet would be to take things slow and keep careful watch of Arthur’s reactions. Which was second nature to him by now, anyway—he spent a fair portion of his waking hours around Arthur cataloguing the subtle shifts in his expressions that signaled frustration, anxiety, excitement, amusement.

Eames walked slowly back to Arthur, letting his footfalls go heavy, loud on the wooden floors. With each step, he watched Arthur’s muscles shift in recognition that he was getting closer and closer, that soon Eames would be using this tool on his tender flesh.

He stood behind Arthur silently, not moving, looking down on the back of his head, the supple curve of his spine, the fine globes of his truly exceptional arse. Eames fought down an impulse to palm those cheeks, feel the firm muscles under the flawless skin, spread him open and—no. 

“Have you been a naughty boy, Arthur?”

Arthur nodded.

“I need to hear you,” Eames said, an edge to his voice.

“Y-yes,” Arthur choked out. He sounded dazed already and Eames wondered if it was possible that he was already slipping down into subspace.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ve been bad.” His voice faltered on the last word.

“Exactly how bad? What should be done with you?” Eames felt himself sinking into the role. He walked in an arc around Arthur, watching all the fine movements of his body as it shifted to accommodate the pressure on his knees, his shoulders. His awareness followed Eames, though his eyes never moved to fix on the predator stalking him.

“I need—I need punishment. Please.” Arthur’s eyes closed and he swallowed convulsively. 

Eames watched with fascination as Arthur’s dick twitched and precome welled up in the slit and spilled over. His own cock was painfully hard; it was difficult to believe he could be this aroused with no contact, no friction at all.

This didn’t feel like practice for a job, or if it had been, it no longer was—at least, not for Eames. It felt more like testing the waters. 

Eames knelt and drew back his arm, gripping the crop. He heard Arthur’s breath hitch as the crop swept through the air to land on his right cheek, the impact making a sharp sound and leaving a patch of pink skin. Arthur didn’t react, other than the initial stuttering breath. He delivered another stroke, slightly harder, that left a noticeable red stripe. Again, there was no overt response.

Eames felt adrift; he was so used to having responsive sexual partners—not that Arthur was a sexual partner, of course—but in the absence of feedback, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He cast his mind back to the surveillance footage, recalling how many strokes the dom had issued. It was quite a lot, actually.

He delivered about a dozen more blows, feeling his blood heat up and pump hard through his body. An almost trance-like state settled over him and he shook it off. There could be nothing but full awareness here lest he accidentally cause Arthur harm. He stopped and assessed Arthur’s physical state. Situation report: a generalized blotchy redness, bright but not alarmingly so, a few distinct stripe marks from more enthusiastic hits. So far so good.

He shifted position to check on Arthur’s breathing and found his chest heaving, his eyes glassy. It seemed like he was halfway to subspace already. No drool, that meant it was probably okay to continue. Or should he? A quick glance at Arthur’s erection showed it hadn’t flagged in the least. It was nearly completely upright, flushed dark red and there was so much precome slicking the sides and head that it shone in the light, as shiny and tempting as a candy apple. He wanted—fuck, he wanted to take it in his mouth. What would Arthur do then?

Eames backed away, pushing the impulse aside. He needed to focus on getting Arthur as deep into subspace as he could. Other than the sign Arthur had mentioned, how was he supposed to know when he was deep? A fact surfaced in his mind from one of the websites; if he was sinking into subspace, it would likely affect his speech.

“Arthur, are you still with me?” Eames said, trailing the grip of the crop lightly over his shoulders.

“Mmmm,” Arthur said.

“Do you want more?”

“Hnngh… yyy-eah,” he said, the sounds slurred, like he was trying to speak from somewhere deep underwater.

An electric thrill raced through Eames’ veins. He’d done it. He’d dropped Arthur deep into subspace.

 _And now what?_ Some reptilian part of his brain asked. _You could do whatever you liked now._

Eames shook his head to clear it. It was entirely unlike him to want to take power over someone like that, not without their active participation. The sight of Arthur, though, helplessly overcome by sensation and surrender, was doing things to him. He knelt again, readying himself to deliver a few more strokes, but he found his hand putting the crop down and hovering over Arthur’s arse, feeling the heat rising from it. His fingertips rested lightly on the blazing skin—he was touching Arthur, touching without permission and without a goal, just breathless exploration. He pushed down and watched the indents his fingers made in the flesh. Arthur gasped, so he did it again, and Arthur pressed back into the touch, a soft groaning sound coming from him. He pressed and released, seeing the white spots where his fingers had been and he wanted oh— he wanted to cover those white spots with come, whip his dick out and shoot his load all over that incredible fucking arse.

His eyelids dropped to half-mast as he watched his hands roam Arthur’s defenseless bum, caressing and pinching and patting, noting every tensed muscle and twitch, how Arthur pushed against him, driving him on. Any second now he was going to lose it, completely lose control and do something their relationship wouldn’t recover from.

Fuck.

Eames tore his hands away from Arthur’s body and clenched his fists, hard enough for his nails to leave marks in the palms. Then he picked up the crop again and delivered five more blows, varying the placement like the websites had said, to avoid breaking the skin. The noise Arthur made was exquisite, animal, high-pitched and breathy and so, so close to orgasm. 

He ducked his head to look between Arthur’s spread legs and didn’t see any come on the mat, so he layered a few more blows over the ones he’d just given and then checked on Arthur. A tiny drop of saliva was forming in the corner of his mouth.

“Arthur,” Eames said, low and rough. “Are you still with me?”

Arthur nodded but his eyes told a different story. Without further questioning, Eames stood and went to the wall to release the rope. Arthur’s arms drifted down in slow motion, painfully graceful, but then it looked like he was on the verge of collapse so Eames rushed over to him and pushed his shoulder under Arthur’s arm, wrapping his own arm around Arthur’s slender torso. Arthur slumped against him, his head lolling against Eames shoulder and neck.

Eames’ eyes fluttered closed; this kind of intimacy was something he hadn’t really let himself think about it, but as soon as it was happening it revealed itself as all he had ever wanted. He just held Arthur silently for a moment, trying to get himself under control, then realized that he should be talking to Arthur, encouraging him to come out of his state of mindlessness.

“How do you feel?” he asked, bending his head to whisper in Arthur’s ear.

“Mmmmmmm,” Arthur said, sounding sleepy or drugged. Eames hadn’t in a million years ever thought he’d hear Arthur sound like that. It was, on one level, disturbing: so unlike the man he’d come to know over the course of their acquaintance. But on another level, it was intoxicating. Hearing and seeing Arthur this way was changing his view of him, affecting Eames in a way that their previous activities hadn’t.

Eames shifted their position so that Arthur’s head was resting in his lap. His hands had begun carding through that thick, wavy hair without him making the decision to do so; he almost stopped himself. Then Arthur began making soft noises of enjoyment, and it became impossible to convince himself to reign it in. He wondered if Arthur’s hair was this soft in real life.

Arthur started to shiver and Eames dreamt up a soft blanket with which to cover Arthur.

“Are you thirsty?” he murmured.

“Uh-huh,” Arthur said, a little hoarsely. A quick mental flex and Eames had a glass of the Vitamin Water that Arthur inexplicably preferred. He helped Arthur sit up and take a few sips, then he sank bonelessly back down to rest his head on Eames’ thigh.

“Thanks,” he said after a moment, and Eames felt his stomach turn over. He wasn’t comfortable with how much he seemed to like this, taking care of Arthur in this way.

His hand was still carding through Arthur’s hair. “Is this alright?” he said, slowing his strokes in case the answer was in the negative.

“It’s wonderful, thank you. You know I love having my hair played with.” Arthur’s voice was soft and dreamy but clear. He sounded almost recovered and Eames tensed in anticipation of his getting up and moving away imminently. He glanced down to see that Arthur’s eyes were still closed and he relaxed a bit. It didn’t seem like he was going anywhere just yet.

“I don’t know that, actually,” Eames said, smiling wryly. Arthur couldn’t be too far up the ladder to true consciousness if he was assuming any kind of intimacy between himself and Eames.

“You were really good. I’m impressed with you.” Eames tried to stifle the warm feeling that spread through him on hearing these words. His hand continued to stroke the soft dark strands of Arthur’s locks.

“Thank you,” he finally mustered. “How are you feeling now?”

Arthur stirred in his lap and turned over until he was facing up. His eyes opened and fixed on Eames, who had never seen Arthur look this relaxed and open. Then he smiled, and—there weren’t really words for how Eames felt at the moment. Expansive. Invincible.

“I feel great. You’re doing everything right. Of course, during the job you’re going to have to be a lot more, well. You’re going to have get the information out the mark before he comes all the way out of subspace.”

“Are you… out of subspace now?”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur said softly. “I still feel kind of high. Ask me a question.”

“What kind of question?”

“Something you don’t think I would normally answer.”

“Now I know you’re still in subspace, Arthur. You would never open yourself up like this normally,” Eames chuckled as Arthur clumsily levered himself up out of Eames’ lap.

“I’m serious. We have to test this. Ask me.”

“Er…” Eames stalled. The foremost question on his mind was not really an option, here. 

“What’s your favorite song?”

“Poker Face. Oh my god.” Arthur covered his eyes with one hand, a rueful smile on his lips.

Eames burst out laughing, in spite of himself. “Arthur, a secret devotee of Lady Gaga! Who would have guessed?”

“There’s all kinds of things you wouldn’t have guessed about me, Eames,” Arthur said with his face still half-hidden, looking shockingly coy.

“Such as what?” Eames asked, feeling light in the chest region. This playfulness was such a welcome surprise, he couldn’t help seeing how far he could push it.

Arthur suddenly reached for the crop that Eames had put down and swatted at Eames’ thigh.

“That’s for messing up my suit and giving me a very unprofessional boner the first time we met,” he said, thwacking Eames a few times and starting to laugh.

Eames just blinked at him. He couldn’t honestly credit his hearing at that moment.

“What?”

Arthur didn’t seem to notice how gobsmacked Eames was.

“I have this thing about … someone messing me up. Being, I don’t know, like, ruined. You know, I like to look a certain way, I like to look put together…” Arthur said, and as he was talking disjointedly, he laid himself back in Eames’ lap. Eames put up no resistance to this.

“Go on,” Eames said, feeling a little odd, like perhaps he should stop Arthur talking this way. It was obviously just a side effect of the subspace. When he finally came all the way back to himself, he was likely to be mortified. Or worse, pissed off. Or worse than that, hurt.

“I just, you know. I like to be dominated. Impact play is fine but to be honest, I’m more about the dominance and submission. I was pissed off at the time, when you dumped coffee on my third-favorite suit, but …” he trailed off, then laughed softly. “After, I started fantasizing about you, you know, getting me all—dirty. I jacked off to the idea that you’d done it on purpose, that you wanted to see me wrecked and filthy and—taken apart at the seams.”

Eames took a sharp breath, and Arthur turned his head to look up at him.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” he said, smiling a sweet, defenseless smile. His dimples were showing.

Eames might have blacked out a little bit from arousal. It wasn’t clear because at that moment, the timer ran out.

When he blinked awake, his eyes focused on the hideous light fixture above him, and then Arthur hove into view. His expression was still open, soft, and his gaze roved over Eames’ face hungrily.

“Are you…” still in subspace, he’d been about to say, but Arthur’s mouth covered his before he could get the words out. He had a fraction of a moment to worry that the remnants of subspace were clouding Arthur’s judgment, because not only would that be disappointing but also ethically problematic, when Arthur broke off what was turning into a very promising kiss to say, “If you’re worried about me still being under, you should know that going into subspace in a dream doesn’t cause your actual endorphins to activate.”

Then he lowered his head again, capturing Eames’ lips in a dizzyingly competent kiss while climbing on top of him. Eames found himself frozen in shock for just a moment, and then Arthur’s hard cock pressed against his still-raging erection and he kicked into gear, opening his mouth wider and sliding his tongue alongside Arthur’s. They both let out little gasps, and Eames bucked up hard against Arthur’s body, knocking him over and rolling on top of him.

“Is this okay?” he said, voice rough and low. Arthur gave him a lopsided smile as he slowly raised his hands over his head, maintaining eye contact all the while. Eames surged up to place a hand over Arthur’s wrists and rolled his hips to drag his cock against Arthur’s again, heavy, slow and hard. The way Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut and his body arched to meet the bulk of Eames’ pressing him down was completely intoxicating, the best thing to happen to Eames in years.

“You want to keep going,” Arthur panted. “You want to tell me what to do?”

“Yes,” Eames all but groaned. “May I?”

Arthur burst out laughing, then schooled his face to seriousness, lightning-fast.

“Please,” he said, lowering his eyelashes, and Eames knew it was ridiculous, but that simple act of submission nearly made him come in his pants.

“I want you to come in your pants,” he blurted out, hoarse and desperate, not smooth at all. It didn’t matter because Arthur’s response was to simply grind up harder against him and start making these incredible soft little noises.

“Yes, sir,” he breathed, and that was it, Eames had to get up and away from him or this was all going to end in two seconds flat.

He stood and looked wild-eyed around the room, then glanced down at himself, noting the absurd tenting of his trousers. Arthur had moaned in protest as he had moved away from him and was now on his knees, looking about as drugged and dazed as he had in the dreamscape. Eames decided that, as God and the universe had apparently colluded to deliver this opportunity to him wrapped in a bow, he may as well fulfill fantasy Number One, in which Arthur got his lovely mouth around Eames’ cock and went to town. He sat himself on the sofa, legs spread wide, and slid into the role.

“You like giving head?”

Arthur’s mouth fell open and he nodded. The motion drew Eames’ eye to the narrow grey tie still collaring Arthur’s neck.

“Take off your tie,” he said, enjoying the lowering of Arthur’s eyelids when given a direct order. This was very, very nice. He could get used to this. His cock leapt in his pants and he palmed it slowly, watching as Arthur’s gaze followed the movement of his hand.

Arthur’s eyes stayed glued to Eames’ hand as it groped the length of his aching erection, while his hands drifted up to deal with the tie. Once it was in his hands, he dragged his gaze up to Eames’ face, clearly looking for direction.

“Turn around. Put your hands behind your back. Wrists crossed.”

Arthur instantly complied, shuffling around on his knees until his arse was on display, and seeing it in real life, with his wrists demurely crossed over the small of his back, surrendering the deadly capability of those beautiful hands—he wanted to frame this moment. The tie dangled from his left hand and Eames reached forward to take it and wrap it loosely around Arthur’s wrists.

“Now. Face me.”

Arthur turned himself back around, somehow managing to be graceful while bound and on his knees. His face was relaxed, just like it had been while they were under, and his eyes glowed with anticipation, resting first on Eames’ face and mouth, then sliding to his crotch. He shuffled forward and nudged in between Eames’ spread legs, leaning in to nuzzle his erection through the fabric of his trousers. Eames bucked up into the friction and heat, slight though it was. He watched hungrily as Arthur mouth opened to breathe through the light wool, hot dampness seeping in, spreading over his cock.

“Nnngh, yes,” Eames said, his head falling back on the couch. He heard a whimper of frustration and looked down again to see Arthur trying to open the fly with his teeth—a pang of tenderness pierced him at Arthur’s sheer determination to carry through with a hopeless task. He took it into his own hands, unzipping and pushing his trousers down around his thighs, and Arthur fell back on top of him, mouth trailing kisses up and down his shaft.

Eames’s hand went to Arthur’s hair, which was indeed stiff with grooming product, and he teased the strands apart with his fingers, feeling the softness underneath. Arthur groaned and pressed into the touch as he licked a stripe up the underside of Eames’ cock, which caused Eames’ fingers to tighten their grip. Arthur pulled off to say, “yes, that, do that, please,” and Eames wasted no time in complying, pulling on his hair as he thrust up to seek more of that heavenly mouth.

The sight of those lips on his cock was mesmerizing, and all the more so when Arthur, eyes closed in bliss, took in the head and then the entire shaft down to the root. He was moaning around Eames’ girth, saliva dripping down around the base and sliding down his balls. Eames’ eyes rolled back in his head as his hips pumped into delicious hot suction. Everything had started to go hazy when he realized that Arthur was humping his leg, having angled his body to the side to get some friction against his by-now-desperate cock. He thrust out his leg to give Arthur something more to push against and felt a spreading wetness on his shin. Fuck, Arthur was so wet, it had soaked his pants. Fucking hell.

“Are you—ungh—fuck, Arthur, are you wet? Are you dripping—ah God—for me?”

Arthur gagged around the cock stretching his lips as he just barely managed to nod. The thought of Arthur’s lovely cock dripping wet, the way it had been in the dreamscape, caused Eames’ orgasm to coalesce in his balls, spiking up through his spine.

“Oh god, Arthur,” Eames keened, “you’re so—god, darling, your mouth—you’re so hungry for it, fuck—” And with those words, Eames pumped that divine mouth full of come, spurting hot and helpless in long jets down Arthur’s throat.

His breath still coming in stuttering gasps, hips thrusting weakly against Arthur’s face, Eames forced his eyes open to watch as Arthur took everything he gave him. Then Arthur pulled off, red-faced, wet-eyed and panting, a trickle of come gracing the corner of his mouth. He looked incredible; the most beautifully wrecked human Eames had ever seen.

“Did you come?”

Arthur nodded and smiled, then said, “Yeah,” his voice hoarse and raw. “In my pants,” he elaborated, shifting uncomfortably, his arms still behind his back even though the tie restraining him had been more notional that effective.

Eames slid off the couch to his knees, capturing Arthur’s mouth in a long kiss that he hoped conveyed the welter of emotions running through him. He reached around to undo the tie only to realize that it had fallen off of Arthur some time during the proceedings. Instead, he grabbed Arthur’s hands and laced his fingers through them, deepening the kiss. Arthur arched into it, angling his head for better access, and their hands broke apart to grope each other’s bodies.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty messy right now,” Arthur murmured, grinning.

“Just the way you like, hm?” Eames said against his lips. “I think I quite like it, too.”

“Yeah, that’s nice,” Arthur laughed, “but I’d like to get clean now, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” Eames drawled as he crowded Arthur back, maneuvering him onto the floor and dealing with his trousers. “In fact, I think I’ll do you the honors.”

Arthur began to laugh again but it turned into a long, loud moan when Eames got his mouth on his softening dick, lapping up the sticky residue of his orgasm. “Too much?” Eames mumbled into the soft, springy hairs around the base of Arthur’s cock as he sucked and lapped up every drop of come in the vicinity.

“N-no-ooooh,” Arthur said breathlessly, stretching luxuriously into the attention. Eames licked every last sticky spot until the stretching turned to writhing and the spent cock was refilling under his ministrations.

“I think I want to make you come again, if that’s okay? I promise I’ll keep you clean, I’ll take it all down.”

“Eames,” Arthur whined, “just fucking tell me, okay? Whatever you want is fine, ohhhh fuck, it’s great, just fucking _tell_ me. I trust you.”

Eames closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head on the rise of Arthur’s hipbone. This whole thing felt like a miracle to him. He never wanted to be parted from the phenomenal man underneath him, so complex and open and guarded and gentle and mysterious. 

“I’m gonna make you come again,” Eames growled, and Christ, the response that got. Arthur’s dick went from half-hard to rock solid in an instant. “I’m gonna get you so messy, love.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered and then focused intently on Eames as he spread his legs further. 

“I’m all yours, Mr. Eames.” 

 

* * *

 

When, months later, Arthur wanted to recreate this scene in the warehouse of the very boring job they were on, Eames had absolutely no objections. The blatant sentimentality of it gave him the perfect opening to propose, actually, once he had Arthur safely back at the hotel and out of his ruined trousers.


End file.
